Small things

Our lives are made up of the small things. The silver twigs of the maple unfurl tiny red leaves, sewed on for now, as if forever.
Our house deeds sit in a small, flat box, in a concrete room accessed by keys, protected by alarms. It's a dry, cool vault with brass edging each box. Our illusion of permanence: bought; mortgage-free; owner. Each hints at longevity but it's only tenure. Where will we fly next? And then, this place so dear now, slides past as slick as plastic photo wallets, their pages turning in bundles of white, slippery and thick.
We age before our eyes, time ellapsed. Our children grow teeth, lose teeth, grow teeth again. Soon there will be new faces to add - their loves.
I love to watch my face age. The little pooches at the jaw, and the wrinkles under the cups of my lower eyelids. My face is softer, more loving and lively with life written on it. I can smile at everyone now, and it means no more than happiness.
Sweetness, fondness and gentle stewardship; our memories of this earth.